


[interlude] The Letters

by Itar94



Series: Building Neutron Stars [13]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: AU, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Children of Characters, Dysfunctional Family, Email Correspondence, Episode: s03e10-e11 The Return, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mentions of miscarriage, Omega John Sheppard, Original Character(s), Pre-Series, alternative universe, mentions of mpreg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-17 14:19:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1390906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itar94/pseuds/Itar94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave had never understood his brother’s reasoning, just as John had never understood his. In a way they had always been strangers.<br/>(John was the runaway child.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Dave's side of the story._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> This begins pre-series, then references to [Finding a Planet to Call Ours (chapter 5)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1027291/chapters/2790304). Unlike the previous interludes this will have multiple chapters.

**Try** /traɪ/  
[noun]  
 _to attempt to do something (possibly without fulfilment);_  
 _to attempt to overcome difficulties (sometimes with success)_

Life has always been rather ordinary for Dave Sheppard. He tends to the family business, the house, his wife. Days pass and he never gets to see any especially ordinary things. Slowly, he sees his father grow old as all people do; there is no surprise, just acceptance. He does not wish for less or more. There is no reason to.

He hasn’t seen his brother’s face for over sixteen years.

And it has been so long now that the shock, the sadness, the anger of separation has faded now to a dullness barely noticeable. To be honest, Dave doesn’t miss his brother. He was a troublemaker, he hated rules, he was so free-spirited - everything that Dave was not. At least not since childhood.

Perhaps he grew out of it and John never did.

* * *

They hadn’t parted on the best of terms. But, in some form of kindness, or perhaps just to show he does no longer care, at all, their father had never revealed to anyone that his brother is omega. Not the neighbours. Not the government. To give him - some sort of chance. To make him see that they are not the enemy. To make him see that there are second chances. And because their father kept silent, so did Dave.

This way John can go on with his life and they can get on with theirs, and they do not have to speak.

* * *

He doesn’t expect to see him again. Perhaps an odd call at a late sudden hour, if John ever gets off base or perhaps gets kicked off it. There was this message nine years ago, short, supplying little: _I’m alive_ _\- thanks for the photo. Congratulations._

Dave had just married Cassandra then. She was lovely, kind, beautiful. Everything one could wish for. Omega. Adored the horses, abhorred the decorating. His father rather liked her. She was the dream partner, really.

But he has never really wanted children. He’s not certain if he ever really wants them. Except, his father needs him to have heirs, to carry on the Sheppard business, their name. And John, he thinks, well - John’s a troublemaker. John will never comply.

* * *

They try. There’s an issue. The doctors say, _We’re sorry, we’ve tried, but it seems highly unlikely._ They try, again - again. Many nights, Cassandra is weeping, but the days betray nothing. She’s upper class. She’s been taught not to break down in public. But she’s omega and the whole of society has always been yelling _Omegas are never childless! They should never be infertile!_  It is a rule even if it isn’t true.

(Perhaps that is why, Dave wonders, perhaps that is why John ran away. After all, before the door had closed, he did say: _I need to fly_.)

It’s not easy to be different.

Dave doesn’t know how to soothe her. He says he loves her, but her face is bleak. This cannot be solved with love or maybe even money. Hesitantly he suggests surrogates, perhaps, maybe, but she pales at the notion. As if ashamed.

* * *

Then. It’s spring when he news come. She’s filled with joy. There’s a baby - finally! _There,_ she says guiding a hand to her yet flat belly, _oh Dave, we’ll be parents. We will finally have a baby._

* * *

It seems true.

After five months, she wakes screaming in her sleep. There’s blood on the sheets.

* * *

They do not try again after that, not for a long while.

The second time they fail, he sees her turn around, toward the woods around the large lawn. She doesn’t return.

* * *

He will not be a father. He suspects that he cannot handle a second failure.

The funeral is dark and quiet and the sun shines. There’s bird song at a distance as the priest murmurs and casts dirt over the casket. His father says, _I’m terribly sorry, my son. I am so sorry_. Dave is certain he is thinking of their mother, of her smile and the children playing in the wide halls and laughter ringing gently in the breeze, like bells. His own memories of her are vague.

He doesn’t call John. If he’s alive - well, he must be yet, or there’d be stern-faced men in dress blues knocking at the door - he’s alive out there, perhaps fighting a war of another’s making while Dave battles his own. He must be seeing blood and death. He might be dying. There is no need for him to know. He doubts John even knew her name.

* * *

Two years later he meets Laura while on a trip to the D.C. Her hair is the same shade of copper blonde. Her smile is brilliant, radiant, a bit like the sun, and Dave has never been one for poetics but he might be a little now, for her. For a time. For now. And after some time of back and forth struggling, she takes his hand, he takes hers, and all feels right.  
And maybe he doesn’t love her as he loved Cassandra, but he gives her all she wishes. Money is no issue.

But some things cannot be bought.

There are times when she isn’t happy.

* * *

His father asks when he should expect a grandchild. And Dave has to be honest with him and tell him _Never. I’m sorry, father._

Patrick tries not to be furious, he knows. Forgiving instead, supportive - _I hope you believe you are making the right decisions, son,_ he says, and _Perhaps adoption..._ even if he knows his father isn’t too fond of the idea. He is too conservative for that.

* * *

Dave hasn’t seen his brother for sixteen years and he never expect to see him again when suddenly there’s a knocking on the door. Their father is off on a business trip to London and Laura has gone with some friends for a few days and Dave has relaxed in solitude, able to focus on the business and practical things. Without others to question there are less worries. No distractions.

Then. John is there. The butler has taken him into the foyer, into the living room, up the grand staircase. There’s a man with him, an alpha with a loud voice, taking up a much larger space than necessary with his character, his presence. And John. Dave just doesn’t know what to say. Sixteen years.

Maybe he’s been discharged.

There is a little girl, seven months old, on his hip. He looks sheepish, tired - young. Like a boy dragged home by the ear after being found doing mischief. But now he has dragged himself there, along with his mate - and Dave wonders when the hell _that_ happened - and daughter.

Oh god, their daughter.

Dave vaguely thinks; _Father will have a fit_. Or possibly, _John might run away again._

* * *

After having them settled in in a guest room, Dave grabs the phone. Dials their father’s number. In London is it now morning, and his father sounds surprised, a little agitated, at being disturbed. His plane will take off soon and carry him back. Dave just has to spit it out. Warn him.

John is home.

* * *

 _This isn’t what I expected, son,_ he overhears his father say along with other bits and pieces.

There are fragments of other things in John’s voice as he answers:  _Sorry, but I had to fly. There was no other way._

* * *

McKay is, apparently, not a medical doctor but an astrophysicist and co-worker as well as John’s mate - not husband, yet. John shrugs helplessly at the question, like, _What can you do?_ and Dave wonders if this McKay is so important to whatever strange base John is stationed at that they’re allowing this - this relationship, their child - they’re allowing it just to keep the alpha there, and by extension John. That they cannot take it too far, yet. As if this isn’t too far. Dave doesn’t know. Or maybe they don’t want to get married. Maybe they consider themselves married.

(And Dave Sheppard does not know this, but there was a ceremony on the mainland of Lantea, three million lightyears away, a few months earlier. He doesn’t know it, there are no records except the ones written in memory and his brother never tells him. For how could he tell him? Dave doesn’t know what he’s been up to. He doesn’t believe in extraterrestrial life.)

Then there’s an outburst from the man, and he’s not that slouched down now, there’s the trace of muscle and training and determination and McKay growls angrily, _Your brother is a hero, Mr Sheppard - some people are just morons not realizing it._

And Dave just looks at his brother, this stranger that he doesn’t know anymore. this isn’t a little boy run away from home. This is no child to be admonished and sent to his room and forgiven. This is a man, a man who has killed - he gets no details (doesn’t want them), no numbers or places, John won’t speak but there are scars. So many new scars. A commanding officer. Lieutenant Colonel, now. There are medals on his chest. Dave doesn’t know why he received them.

Their father never thought he’d make it past Captain. No one did. And Dave isn’t proud, exactly, more taken aback, but he understand the longing in John’s eyes when he looks hopefully at him and their father, wordlessly - no one has been proud of him. Not since their mother died. He _needs_ someone to be proud of him. But how can he expect them to be?

He is the runaway child.

* * *

Dave sees his wife looking at them longingly. At their little girl. And he tries sharing that, for some time. Maybe, for a moment, he does. There’s envy, a sharp pang in his gut. His brother has been busy and killing people and flying choppers and now he has a daughter. He failed, lied, tricked, ran away - now he has a daughter. Something that Dave will not have. Doesn’t, in truth, want to have.

Perhaps it is the idea he seeks. The beautiful partner, the picket fence, the perfectly mowed lawn. His father’s approval, the safety of normality, strangers nodding. But that is just an illusion.

His brother is such a troublemaker and he made his dreams. And he made them true. Dave doesn’t ask how. He’s certain that the answer can never be wholly truthful.

* * *

Then, they’re gone. As abruptly as they came. There is not a word for days and days and days. But there’d been a note left behind, hesitantly almost, with an email address, and a scrawl beneath it reading: _Will be out of contact except for a couple of times a month._ _But, in case._

Perhaps things can be changed.

Laura is asking about photographs already.

* * *

His brother doesn’t write. Maybe he’s in battle. Dave attempts then and the wording is sharp, quiet, succinct. He talks about the business and their father and Laura, how things are well, of the aftermaths of the sudden visit. He asks a few things but not too much. _Classified,_ his brother had said. Everything classified. He cannot tell where in the world he is - well, there was something about Antarctica but as far as Dave knows no wars are being fought there, yet. Maybe John isn’t fighting battles. But Dr McKay had called him a hero, with a conviction that wasn’t just borne out of love and devotion as a mate. There had been truth in his ire.

He is tempted to write _Are you keeping yourself out of trouble, Johnny?_ \- remembering their childhood; John was always the one to fall from the trees when seeking the tallest branches, the one to take the biggest horse for a ride when strictly told not to, to scrape his knees in the dirt. And he’d always pick himself up laughing and curious and carefree.

His smile hadn’t been carefree during the visit. It had been rare and saddened, shadowed in the gloom. _Kicked out,_ he’d murmured, _all of us; but maybe we can return one day. We hope._ When they’d packed up and left John had said, _Sorry; recall,_ and there’d been hope and relief and fear in his voice. As if they were to return to someplace safe, someplace they might even call _home_. And Dave wonders what kind of base that could possibly be - if it is a real place.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This chapter ties in with events occurring in[Chasing Ghosts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1395922/chapters/2924767) and [Breaking Down the Walls](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4152570). The draft for this chapter has been lying around waiting since 2014...so I thought it was time I posted._

The reply comes several days later. We just get the chance to send batches about once a week, is the explanation. The wording isn’t as formal as his own, yet stilted. Neither of them know what to say or how to say it. That is, in a way, a relief.

There are words of, _Still alive_. _We’re reclaimed the home base now,_ and _All went OK._ No details, of course. Classified. Dave tells their father anyway. His little brother is still breathing and that is something, at least. Apparently his daughter has a place there, to be safe. He can’t figure out what kind of base would allow that. It sounds like some kind of research facility, though. There was a mention of a science department. Perhaps, out of the line of fire, they don’t mind the omega and his little girl - as insane as it sounds.

It finishes with: _This is the best base I’ve ever been on. This is home._

John hasn’t spoken of home for years and years and years.  


* * *

The same time comes another email. Its date indicate it’s been written later on but must have been sent in the same batch as the previous one. While the first had been elated, relieved, this one is different. A little hurried. So much omitted.

It reads (so quick, rapid, careful and yet it sounds like one set of chains have finally fallen away from his brother’s throat):

_Hi Dave, it’s me again. There was an incident recently that could have wiped out this base, but it was averted, thankfully. Just wanted to say I’m still alive. There is little detail I can give you without clearance, but, well, it was a pretty big event, on the tip of the scale of natural disasters. Thankfully it shouldn’t happen again in another 15,000 years or so. Other than that it’s been a pretty uneventful week._

There’s a blank space here, an unfulfilled paragraph. Then, as if nothing is amiss, nothing missing, his brother continues:

_Anyway, I hope all is well on your side of the world. McKay sends greetings. Take care,_

_John_

* * *

He replies three days later, after he’s had some time to mull it over. The confusion hasn’t quite settled and he has been busy with work otherwise. He’s watched the news, all channels available, checked the papers, the internet. There’s been no mention of large-scale natural disasters that may occur only once every fifteen thousands years. Nor anything of the sort anywhere near Antarctica. Perhaps he isn’t stationed there anymore.

Maybe the disaster is classified, that too, naturally occurring or not, since they managed to contain it. (There are no cities suddenly blazing.)

At least he is still alive.

* * *

_Hello John,_

_It’s good to hear that you are well. Though I don’t really know what kind of disaster would happen only every fifteen thousand years, I am glad you have avoided it._

_All is well here. Business is good. Father is very busy settling a deal with a British company, though I suspect you have little interest in that. Laura is doing well, she tends much to the horses. One of the Anglo-Arabians has foaled. Father reckons it will be valuable. It is a descendant of PJ - I remember you liked him when we were teens. The house is surprisingly ... empty without you and Dr McKay; your visit was unexpected, but brought what you may call a breeze to the mansion._

_I fear, I am afraid, Laura will demand that you return someday with your daughter. She is talking about adoption. I’m not sure how to address it. Perhaps you can’t give my any advice, but I ask all the same. Your situation is rather - unique. You never spoke of other children where you are stationed anyway. I didn’t think such a thing was possible. But you spoke of natives, when you visited. Are you intermingling?_

_Anyway, I mean not to bother you. Please send my regards to Dr McKay._

_And Laura would greatly appreciate photographs._

_Dave_

* * *

At first he doesn’t mean to sound so much more personal. But he hasn’t exactly had pen pals as a child and the only other contacts he has now are business associates. Writing to John, knowing a reply may come a week later or never, is surprisingly easy. Surprising - just that, maybe. Laura gently suggests to stop using John’s rank as a greeting. You are brothers, aren’t you? she says, though she knows their estrangement. It’s not as if he’s talked about John during their time together. _He addresses you by name_ , she adds.

And so, he rewrites, adds, removes, ending up with something roughly patched together and yet - he ends up clicking send before regretting it.

* * *

A couple of weeks later there’s a photo awaiting at the bottom of the message, and Laura has it printed out. Put away in an album, not to hang on the wall, thankfully. Dave just doesn’t know if he could stand looking at his brother surrounded by strangers like that. It’s just - so strange. Their father might protest, too. He hasn’t forgiven. Maybe started thinking about it. Hasn’t forgotten.

Maybe (because John must have understood that their father rather would have a photo of just the girl, his grandchild, one thing to be proud of) the photo is so tiny and full of unfamiliar faces because John has always been the disobedient child. Because he wants them to see that there is more to his new - surroundings? family? home? - than an alpha from totally the wrong class and country and with appalling manners. Because he wants them to see that there is more.

 _This is my daughter and my team,_ his brother writes.

Reading it aloud Dave could even imagine he might have been smiling as he put down the words. Pride. He hasn’t seen his brother being proud since they were so little that the memory is only a ghost now. Then, he had dared to puff out his chest and grin broadly and turn to their parents and his brother exclaiming: “Look! Look what I did!”

There’s no mistaking the relation the little chubby girl has to the man in whose lap she sits. They have the same curve of nose, the same blue eyes. But her ears are slightly pointed like his brother’s are, she’s smiling and there’s a hint of John’s smile there. From when he was a boy. From before their mother died. The message is short, happy. Dave can imagine it being written in the same tones that he would speak of Laura (would have spoken of Cassandra) - but perhaps even more real, and that causes his chest to ache a little.

It also says: _They’ve become family._

So he has one. Not just a mate, a child. But others. Dave isn’t jealous or angry, to his own surprise, but relieved. They may continue to be almost strangers - or, at least, never become brothers again - but at least John is not alone. It is ... oddly comforting.

He hadn’t thought he’d really care.

* * *

In one message, perhaps fourth or fifth in order, Dave pauses before adding: Father thinks about including your daughter in his will.

Remembering the conversation with his father at the dinner table, still shocked about it and yet - not. Because Dave will not have children. Patrick never expected this chance.

Now, suddenly, he has a grandchild.

Dave never managed to fulfill his duties. John never managed to. And still - a granddaughter. Their father, in his confusion and fury, is relieved. But, Dave thinks, John will refuse. He has no interest in the Sheppard estate, in the business, in carrying on the name. It would not surprise Dave if the letter one day came that his brother would be denouncing his American citizenship and move to Canada along with his mate, leaving the name Sheppard behind forever.

(But if he did he might not be able to fly. And he knows now that John wouldn’t give that up easily. He has always been stubborn.)

* * *

There are emails for some time. There are deals to settle and things keeping him busy. Things keeping John busy too. Thus, he is not overly concerned to begin with. There are other things keeping his mind occupied. The state of the world economy, for one.

For nearly a month there is no word. At the end of it, he begins to worry. Laura asks, _Have they replied?_ His father asks, _Has he an answer to my question?_

Dave wants to ask, Are you alive, John? except there would be men in dress blues at their door if he wasn’t. There would be a call, a voice saying _I’m sorry for your loss._ There would be a letter: _Missing in action._

There is none.

* * *

_Dave,_

_Things have returned to some normalcy here. I say ’some’ because, well, things can get pretty crazy here on the best of days. There was an incident recently which left us all rather -- confused. That’s all I can tell without being fired. It has been sorted now, though, but it drained a lot of power. The scientists are working on that issue now. They think it might not have been as bad as we first thought, which is nice to hear, because having power means we can live a little longer._

_How are things going back there?_

_About father’s will, for Marie... Honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about it. With the chaos of the last few days I haven’t given it too much though either._

_Just. Tell him to go ahead, if that’s what he wants. I don’t really care to be honest. We have it sorted. We’ve got insurances for her. Anyway, he needn’t worry about that._

_Tell him that maybe things can be mended. I’m not sure what I’d tell him though, if I were to talk to him. It’s not my forte. Not his either._

_You can show him this, though:_

 

_Dad,_

_I’m sorry about how it came to be between us, but my dreams just wouldn’t coincidence with any of the plans you had laid out for me. There’s so much I’d miss out if I was someplace else in the world right now. I would not have a daughter, for one. I hope that you one day will accept that. I don’t want anything other from you than that acceptance._

_Your son,_

_John_

* * *

Classified. Of course. No information. Power? He must mean energy, since scientists are mentioned and then it can’t be something to do with politics - or perhaps it is - or it’s something else, elaborate, a grand scheme which Dave isn’t really allowed to know anything about. For a moment he imagines his brother in a desert - no, on an island. A wide glittering ocean, as in the photo. An ocean with a tiny speck of land, the sunshine sharp - the southern hemisphere? yes, Antarctica, though in the photo it looked too warm. A small world cut-off from the rest of the universe. Without power the island might sink. Perhaps the enemy (what enemy? locals? terrorists? John has never specified, never named any countries or organizations) almost breached their walls, they might have been running out of ammunition. Dave doesn’t know. He cannot ask for more than what is given. Disclosure agreements.

But his brother lives. And his niece is safe.

Their father is relieved, reading John’s words addressed to him with a slight frown (he almost never smiles). But Dave can see how the words are shocking him, a tremor from an earthquake unsettling his core.

When John had appeared, daughter and mate at his side, there had been no raised voices. They hadn’t yelled because neither John or their father had energy left over for it. But when the door had shut, sixteen years ago, Patrick had shouted after him to leave - not return - I am ashamed of you. And with those words branded into his back, John had become the runaway child.

The wording now is too soft and kind. Tired, washed out. Like paint having lain to dry under too many hours of sunlight.

Dave isn’t sure - he think he’d be angrier. Harsher. He would demand more. Not simply: I don’t want anything other from you than that acceptance. Were he in John’s shoes he would have screamed for more in return or - perhaps never returned. But, well, he had never understood his brother’s reasoning. Just as John had never understood his. In a way they had always been strangers.

* * *

Their father writes back without having Dave forwarding the message so he never gets to read the words. They are for John’s eyes only.

 _I don’t want anything other from you than acceptance,_ John had written - this his brother knows. But he doesn’t know the answer. It reads:

_One day I might be able to give that._

* * *

And then, suddenly (with great urgency behind every syllable):

_Dave, there is a chance I will be coming stateside in about five months. Or possibly very soon, depending on what the brass says. Just wanted to warn you that I might give a call. If it’s the latter case, I’ll be coming alone._

_John_

* * *

He’s not given the chance to reply. He hadn’t known what to say, because soon? what does soon mean? And there was the maybe, the possibility. He and his father like plans, exact dates, times, knowing beforehand. And it sounded like John was in trouble. That he’d done or would do something that might get him kicked off base. And suddenly Dave finds himself worried for him.

Alone.

John had after all said that he had found family. A home, even. But now - alone.

(And Dave remembers the rain, the dug-up earth, the priest. The small stone set down under the hail, the dimming birdsong, the ringing bells. The letter she had left behind: I’m sorry, my love. But I cannot stand. I am ashamed. The letter he had burned, watching the nightfall, her words clear: Find happiness. Remember me. I never ceased loving you.)

* * *

There is no greeting.

_Won’t be coming soon. But in five months maybe. Rodney’s back. He was -- gone for a while. complicated._

_There’s been a death._

_I. there’s some -- chaos. can’t explain. Classified. Sorry._

There is no signature.

* * *

No words will come. He isn’t sure; should he apologize? Brush it off? Change topic? Should he remain silent? Should he care?

At least, at least it wasn’t Dr McKay who died. He’s back, John wrote. He had never mentioned the man had been missing. If he’d died, Dave is certain there would be only silence. Possibly a letter far into the future, after the caskets had been buried. John has always bottled things up.

(They both speak too little.)

* * *

Laura helps him with a draft. Something along the lines of, _The doors are open; of course you can visit, and I am so sorry._ And possibly, _Make sure you stay alive._

But they never get to hit send.

* * *

_Dave,_

and the tone is much calmer now. Collected, cold with sorrow, as if he has taken a moment to regain his breath but it is choking on shock;

_I’m sorry about the abruptness of that email. Things have been difficult as of late. We have lost an important person. He’s saved my life so many times. And we failed him. We never expected it to happen, like this. There was an explosion on base. It was meant to be safe._

(It was meant to be safe - his daughter is on that base, and Dave wonders, when did it occur? how close to the fires did she come? There is the lingering taste of: I failed, I failed. This was meant to be home and I failed. The ashes of it leaves Dave surprisingly bitter.)

_I hope we won’t intrude if we come visiting in five months. If you mind we won’t come. We needn’t._

(They have to plan. Make sure to tell father early. Warn him. At least he’ll be happy if they bring the girl. He’s not sure about Dr McKay - the man had insulted their father rather loudly that time...and that second time... And John, well. The runaway child. Dave marks an uncertain date in his calendar anyway, to remember.)

_Hope you’re doing OK._

_John_


End file.
